


the solitude of primroses

by asiren (meliorismo)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/F, HG: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorismo/pseuds/asiren
Summary: Water and primroses painted with blood.





	the solitude of primroses

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in June/2014, reposted August/2017.  
> i remember writing this [stares into the distance] the pain was too much

**the solitude of primroses**

At the fringe of the lake lifted up solitary primroses. The bright softness of the petals housed the contour of the last smile she gave me, the blouse with the duck tail. Prim who was my baby sister but who was also burned alive at the stairs of Capitol, like a common witch. The honor of the resistance didn't burn with her, but I did — to the bone. Prim and her pale presence, her cat, her goat and her healing hands. There's this sigh that closes my throat since the day I made myself dead, when I buried her. I don't let it go. The sigh is good, the sigh is Prim. The sigh belongs to me and belonging is such a luxury these times.

I feel Johanna's presence way before hearing her steps against the leaves. I wish I would ask if she remembers the last time we were just like this, looking at a lake tainted bitter with blood. I don't ask, though. At the Arena, we didn't have primroses. Too useless, I guess. But it isn't Johanna who says that the real world is just an extension of the terror we lived? In Peeta's nightmares, Johanna's screams are always there. I remember, like a lightning, Johanna's hard face when the water touched her body at the Thirteenth District, and the suddenly the lake doesn't look any bright. Water and primroses painted with blood.

When I finally look at Johanna I can see her hard, thoughtful face. In her lips only the grave of the provocative smile she wore in another night, in another life, in some stranger's elevator. Johanna doesn't speak a word, though, and neither do I.

In the dark our hands touching, once, twice, the bruised reluctance of a war that will never be really over. Just the fingertips.

At the fringe of the lake shine the primroses, yellow and silent, the only witness of our barriers. The lake painted red with blood doesn't matter, not right now, (it was today or it was last week?), maybe not ever. Not in the silence and solitude of fingers and lips.


End file.
